Wolfsbane
by lycanthrope'n'Schiz
Summary: Chapter Two. "There were no secrets the Forest didn’t know; as soon as Lobo died, Portman could feel the Forest’s wrath, her fury that an Outsider, and a celestial being, at that, had dared to murder one of her own."
1. Voices on the wind

"A World Apart"  
  
Wolfsbane, part I: Voices on the Wind (by lycanthrope, inspired SchizoAuthoress's teaser)  
  
It was an early autumn morning in the kingdom of Drakityd, and Mother Nature had been hard at work vanishing the remnants of the previous night's activities. There had been a fierce storm; thunder struck and lightning crashed for many hours while endless bloated raindrops made their suicidal leaps from the heavens, but now, a couple felled trees and some charred grass were all had been left behind. The air no longer crackled with electricity, but instead held the crisp, clean taste of a brand new day, and the darkened clouds had finally turned tail and run, leaving a clear sky of brightest azure in their wake.   
  
At the westernmost edge of the kingdom, the Great Mountain Range stretched high up into the sky, its harsh, jagged peaks topped with white, an impenetrable wall of towering, silent giants. At the giants' feet was a long, deep valley of luscious green that seemed to catch more light than the rest of the land. The morning dew still clung to the grass of the valley floor, sparkling and shining under the benign, watchful eye of the Sun. Small knolls and hillocks rose from the earth, their tops glistening like the soft peaks of gentle, wave-like movements before it runs ashore.  
  
  
  
A herd of sheep, scores of prim, stoic beasts clad in wooly coats of virginal white, bleated softly as they grazed, watched over by a young, dreamy-eyed shepherd boy. He paused from his work occasionally to cast wistful glances towards the valley's eastern corner, perhaps thinking of a lovely young milkmaid who eagerly awaited his return. If we follow his gaze, over the hills and through the cover of many tall, regal pine trees (Sssh, listen! Can you hear them whispering secrets to the wind?), we come upon a small village of about fifty huts, in varying states of repair, all grouped together in tight, fearful little clusters. Mortals lived here, in the town called Land's End. Many intricate cobblestone walkways connected the huts like the dewy, gossamer strands of a spider's web, and there were several dirt paths winding their way from the village to the feeding grounds below; our shepherd boy must have taken one of them as he and his flock made their way out to pasture that morning.   
  
The walls of the huts were mudbrick, for the most part, the larger, more affluent ones reinforced with stone or wooden pillars--metal was a precious commodity in Drakityd, and was neither affordable nor widely available--the roofs made of thatched straw or grass. The windows were small and set high into the walls, and each hut had a heavy wooden bolt that the villagers drew across their doors each night. Land's End was, after all, the subject of many a mother's cautionary tale. Whether or not it deserved its reputation was a more debatable point, but the villagers all chose to err on the side of caution. Well, that, and also that sometimes, when the wind was blowing eastward from the mountains, they could hear noises: howls and yelps and some said even screams, but they were in the minority. Land's End was, in most respects, an idyllic little village, but in most respects is not the same as in all respects, and there, my friend, was the rub.   
  
Westward, just beyond the Great Mountain Range, grew an ancient and expansive woodland known as the Forest of the Were. In austere and unbroken green splendour, the trees of this forest towered over its multitudes of inhabitants; among the most numerous were the creatures that gave the Forest of the Were its name. They were the werebeasts, beings of human form that transformed unwillingly in the night into animals of great and terrible strength.   
  
  
  
The most infamous of all the werebeasts were the werewolves. The lycanthropes. The various packs of werewolf-kind dominated the Forest of the Were; they were the fiercest beasts around, and they had no qualms about showing it. As a result, many of them were hated even amongst their close cousins, the other canines such as the werefoxes and werecoyotes.   
  
  
  
The Moon River cut a winding path down Mount Horn, through the forest, all the way to the sea. On the eastern shore of the river for an area of about twenty miles was the territory of the Reed werewolf pack. They were a cruel clan, even amongst each other, as a nephew of the alpha wolf could attest. He was the child of a deceased alpha wolf of renowned strength, bravery and benevolence, but you wouldn't know it by looking at him.  
  
Fulton Reed sat upon the soft banks of the river, knees drawn up to his chest, arms wrapped around his knees, head down. Though he was large and somewhat imposing, he looked morose and despondent; dark eyes gazed unseeing through a curtain of thick, wild black hair. He was clad all in black, which emphasised the pallor of his skin. He lowered his gaze to the water rushing swiftly past him, bubbling mockingly as it left him behind, and wondered what drowning would feel like. The world had grown much too cold, and the water looked so warm and inviting... he wondered how long it would take. Five minutes? Seven? How far downstream would his body be carried; where would it end up? It would probably get fed into a lake, and he'd rot away, unnoticed, among the reeds, glassy eyes staring blindly, skin half-rotted away, half-eaten by fish, the flesh peeling back from the bone in wispy little sinews...   
  
'You shouldn't think like that,' he scolded himself, but that only caused another thought to appear, unbidden, in his mind: No one would miss him. His pack would be overjoyed. Okay, so maybe Portman would be a little upset at first, but he'd move on, find somebody else...   
  
But the image of himself at the bottom of a lake kept resurfacing in his mind, cutting off all other thought processes. Strangely, he wasn't distressed. Why did he find himself so comforted by the image of his own decaying corpse? That couldn't be normal, could it? He didn't really want to die, but he'd heard it was such a peaceful way to go. Just water, and darkness, and then... nothing. Like falling asleep, or drifting away...never having to think about anything again. It would be so easy, if he only leaned forward a little more... but wouldn't he need something to weigh him down, so he wouldn't float to the surface? He could tie himself to a log,or...   
  
Virginia Woolf filled her pockets with rocks before taking a stroll to the bottom of a river. Woolf... werewolf... seemed appropriate, didn't it? But her death was a tragedy; she wrote so well... wasn't that reason enough for him to stay? After all, death was so... final. Maybe he could write a book about all this someday, about his near-drowning at his own hand...  
  
But Fulton felt as if he were already drowning; he'd been drowning slowly for years now, and nobody seemed to care. He was reminded suddenly of a poem he'd read in one of the old poetry books of his father's; he'd managed to keep it hidden from his uncle for many years, but last summer, Lobo had found it, among others, buried in a hole under Fulton's favourite tree. He had burned them all, of course, right before his nephew's furious eyes, but he couldn't erase the memory the words had left behind:  
  
'Nobody heard him, the dead man / But still he lay moaning:  
  
I was much further out than you thought, / And not waving but drowning.  
  
Poor chap, he always loved larking, / And now he's dead.  
  
It must have been to cold for him, his heart gave way / They said.   
  
Oh, no no no, it was too cold always / (Still the dead one lay moaning)   
  
I was much too far out all my life / And not waving, but drowning.'  
  
"Pakka," Fulton whispered to himself. "Dead. Drowned. Unnoticed. And they'll say the same thing about me, when I finally go under. Will it be suicide, or an accident of some sort, or will I just disappear, without a trace? Lobo will find a way to get rid of me, and my moans will go just as unheard as my father's."   
  
But was that completely true? Because hadn't Dean heard him moaning, and come running, holding out first friendship, and then love, to one very distraught, confused and angry young lycanthrope? Didn't Dean give him every reason to wake up in the morning, and every reason to go to bed at night happy?   
  
Fulton sighed heavily, and heaved a rock into the river's eddying currents. He wasn't really going to kill himself. He fantasized about it all the time, but he'd never once seriously entertained the idea in his whole life, not even right before he met Dean, when things were really bad. He supposed he was just too stubborn for suicide; after all, seeing him dead was all his uncle had been dreaming of for years, and to give in like that, to let him win... it was unthinkable. He had promised his father he would do everything he could to make life better for the pack, to fight the Old Ways, and bring about the New. Plus there was his mother to think about, and Dean. And Dean.  
  
Still, sometimes he got so tired; tired of fighting tooth and nail for everything he believed in, when he knew it was useless. Then death seemed like a welcome respite, a chance to finally give up the battle and just...die. He knew he was never going to win, so why not give up now? But then again, wasn't history filled with triumphant stories of those who kept fighting in the face of futility, and won?  
  
"So now you think you're some sort of hero," his uncle's voice sneered in his head. "Going to get rid of me, take over the pack, and lead them off into the fairy-tale wonderland your foolish dead father promised them?"  
  
No, Fulton had no illusions; he knew he was going down, but he was determined to go out swinging. Some things are bred into you, and some things are born into you, and sometimes the latter are simply too strong to deny. Like it or not, Fulton Reed was born to fight. From his very violent, difficult birth (his mother would tell you that he was born fighting), through his troubled childhood to now, where it certainly seemed more than likely that he would die fighting. He was also pretty sure that he was born to lose, but that was a matter for another time. Right now, he had to think about one thing: how on earth he was going to get out of this mess alive.  
  
He wondered if the pack had noticed he was missing yet. Probably not, they likely wouldn't check in on him for another couple hours at least, but you never knew. Fulton had the sneaking suspicion that he was nearing the end of his run, with regards to his life in the Reed clan, in any case. That was why he'd escaped to come here; while he'd been lying in the dungeon, he was suddenly been struck with the certainty that his uncle intended to kill him at the ceremonies to be held that night. Things had really been coming to a head in the past few months; being with Dean had helped revive Fulton's flagging sense of justice and self-worth, and he had been making real progress trying to convince the clan that they might want to consider moving in a new direction. His uncle Lobo had, in turn, re-doubled his efforts to break Fulton, make him run away, or have him tossed from the pack. The fact that Fulton was still here, after all these years, was a real sore spot for Lobo, and Fulton was certain he would never let him live to see his   
  
Coming of Age Ceremony, because that would present a whole new host of problems.   
  
The only option available to him at the moment seemed to be running away, but that was practically suicide. A lone werewolf would not last long in the Forest of the Were; while the forest's interior was made up of the varying werewolf territories, the outskirts were the domain of all the other werebeasts, and no pack would let a single lycanthrope encroach upon their territory, especially one with a price on his head. Which meant he'd have to leave the Forest, but that was no less dangerous. He was in no shape for a long walking journey; he knew he wouldn't be able to get very far in human form, but a werewolf walking around in the afternoon sun would be rather conspicuous outside of the Forest. Unless he wanted to consider life as a nomad, he'd soon be hunted down by mobs of angry villagers as soon as they discovered what he was. So, all in all, things were looking pretty good, right?  
  
Fulton sighed. "What's wrong with me, anyway," he wondered aloud, unaware of a pair of dark eyes watching him from the cover of trees that grew so thick alongside the river bank that no ray of sunlight could manage to find its way through the maze of tangled trunks and leaves and branches to the forest floor. "Why can't I just suck it up and go along with him like the rest of the clan?"  
  
His mother, his brother, all the packmates who used to be his friends...they had loved his father too, but that didn't stop them from making the best of things when Lobo took over after Pakka's death, did it? "Why can't I just be like everyone else?"  
  
"Now, you don't really mean that, do you?" The voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at the same time. A sensation similar to feathers being dragged slowly over Fulton's skin was followed by an unseen someone wrapping him in an embrace, before Portman finally appeared in the flesh.   
  
He was also dressed in black, but he was more muscular and attractive than his companion, with brilliant green eyes and dark curly hair. Huge white wings, whiter than snow, spread from his back and curled forward, the pinfeathers coming to rest lightly against Fulton's cheeks. Standing behind Fulton's hunched form--the boy had not once turned around to look at him--Portman lovingly fingered his thick, unruly hair, and he felt Fulton's body relax under this gentle touch. When his hands dropped to Fulton's shoulders, however, and began to massage them, the other boy shied away witha hiss of pain.   
  
"Why not?" Fulton demanded mulishly. "No one would hate me, or pick on me, and I wouldn't have to keep standing up for everything when I know it'll only get me in shit. All my problems would be solved."  
  
Dean looked at him thoughtfully. "I suppose, but then where would you be? Stuck taking orders from some psychotic lupine Mussolini-wannabe? It'd destroy you. Plus," he continued, nibbling softly on Fulton's ear, "you wouldn't be the same beautiful little weirdo I fell in love with. I might have to take my feathers elsewhere."   
  
Fulton leaned his head back against his boyfriend's leg with a sigh. "That," he said, dropping each word carefully, for emphasis, "would be a real tragedy."   
  
They were both silent for a moment, lost in their own thoughts.  
  
"Dean," he blurted out suddenly, still keeping his back to the other boy. "If I had to leave tonight, would you come with me?"  
  
Portman gave a sort of squeak, and sat down beside Fulton, cupping his chin in his palm and turning his head to face him. "Do you mean he actually kicked you out?"  
  
"Not exactly, but the ceremonies are tonight and he's been so crazy lately, and I should be in the dungeon right now because of this stupid shit from last night, but I ran away cause I'm kinda scared that he might... you know." This was quite a speech for Fulton, and Dean had to pause for a moment to take it all in.  
  
"Okay, first off: He locked you in a dungeon? How'd you get out?" His voice dropped and he stroked Fulton's cheek sadly. "He hurt you, didn't he?"  
  
Fulton shrugged off this last one. "I'm alright. I got out through a tunnel; it lets out over there." He gestured to a spot about half a mile down the river. "I dug it a few years ago, but it's kind of a one-use-only thing, so I was saving it for an emergency. But maybe I should go back. It's probably not too late."  
  
"Wait a minute. First you want to run away, and now you want to go back?"  
  
Fulton dropped his head onto his knee, and hugged himself tightly, as if he was trying to hold himself together. He could see where this conversation was going; everything was spinning out of control, and he couldn't do a damn thing about it. "I don't know, Dean. Maybe I'm being paranoid, and he just wants to hold a public trial. I could handle another month of dog duty. Then again, maybe I'm not being paranoid enough and they're after me right now. I just don't know."  
  
"Look, Fulton, I know you don't want to leave your family, but what choice is Lobo giving you? If he doesn't get you kicked out today, he'll just find another excuse tomorrow."  
  
"I know, but the longer I can hold out... maybe things will change."  
  
"Change doesn't always happen automatically. Sometimes you have to make things change."  
  
"That's what my father always said, and look where it got him," Fulton shot out bitterly, running a hand through his hair.  
  
Without warning, Dean grabbed Fulton's arm and pulled back the sleeve of his shirt, revealing a ring of red, raw flesh encircling his wrist. "That's what *you* always say, and look where it got you. What is this, a rope burn?"  
  
Fulton tried to pull away, but Dean held tight to his arm. "How'd you get it?"  
  
"Rope," Fulton muttered sullenly.  
  
"No shit! I mean, who tied you up?"   
  
"The Easter Bunny, genius. Who do you think?" Fulton snapped, aware he was being mean and unreasonable, but not caring. The shame was too great, and it put him in a foul temper. Dean understood this, and sat quietly, waiting for Fulton to explain himself. Eventually, he did.  
  
"Last night, while I was out hunting, Lobo raided my den and took this old journal of mine from a couple months ago, so he found out we've been friends for awhile now, without his knowing. He's been crazy about security lately, and he was convinced I was leaking clan secrets to you. Plus, consorting with a non-lycanthrope is guaranteed to get anyone in serious shit, so coming from me..."  
  
"No offence, Fult, but you werewolves are so fucking elitist. What's the big deal about being friends with a... with me?"   
  
Fulton shrugged. "You think I don't feel the same? Why do you think I'm always getting my ass kicked by this guy; cause I refuse to eat my veggies? Anyway, he started this thing called Lobo's Loyalists--cute, huh?--a sort of bodyguard, but mainly they're just there to do what he tells them. He took all the young, fierce, bullying types with alpha wolf aspirations; they jumped me on my way back from my hunt. Made me change back to human and tied me up so Lobo and them could take turns whacking me with sticks and shit. When they were done Lobo tossed me in the dungeon and said he'd be back when it was time for the ceremonies. You know the rest."  
  
Dean shook his head angrily. "And you're still going to try to excuse this by citing cultural differences?"  
  
Fulton shrugged. "It's an accepted from of punishment. Werewolf kids don't get time-outs. Adults who're convicted by trial get strung up in public and stuff, so I'm lucky I've avoided that... my father wanted to have the laws changed," he finished quickly, noting the horrified look on Portman's face.   
  
Dean stood considering for a moment, then his features hardened and Fulton's stomach dropped. Here it was. "I'm going to go have a little talk with your uncle," he said resolutely. "I'm going to give him my word that you didn't divulge any 'clan secrets,' and that I'll stop seeing you, if that's what he wants. Don't worry," he added, seeing the stricken look on Fulton's face. "Wild horses couldn't drag me away from you, we'll just have to be careful. I like to keep my Fulton in top man-eating condition."  
  
Fulton dropped his head into his hands. What could he say to change Dean's mind? He sighed, looked up slowly. "Dean..." But he had vanished.   
  
"I hate it when he does that," Fulton muttered. "One day, I'm going to learn how to go invisible, and we'll see how cute he thinks it is then."  
  
With Portman gone, the sound of rushing water seemed louder than ever, and Fulton's eyes were drawn once more to Moon River's churning depths. He wished he could at least follow Dean, but he knew his presence would only make things worse. And if it came to a fight, what use would he be? His entire body still ached and throbbed from there pounding he'd taken last night; he'd be nothing but a liability, and he could wind up getting Dean killed.   
  
Still, he hated this feeling of helplessness, hated having Dean interfere on his behalf. He should be the one confronting his uncle, not Portman...  
  
Fulton heaved a sigh. There was no point in moaning about it. Things had already been set in motion, and there was only one possible outcome to this situation: he'd have to run. He'd been avoiding this for years, prolonging the inevitable, ever since Pakka died, but it seemed he was finally out of time. He'd failed. Failed his father, failed his pack, failed himself. But there was nothing more for it now. So Fulton Reed sat upon the river bank, as morose and despondent as he was when we first came across him, and waited for his world to end.  
  
***  
  
"Fulton... Fulton!" He could hear Dean's voice, uncharacteristically high-pitched and tremulous, but it was borne on the wind, and seemed to come from all directions. He strained his ears, but could pick up no sound that resembled his friend's approach. He sniffed the air, knowing it was useless; angels, even fallen ones, carried no scent.   
  
And then Dean appeared beside him, as suddenly as he'd vanished a few hours earlier. He was breathing heavily, his face was blanched; hectic red splotches stood out on his cheeks like a three-dimensional effect.   
  
Looking at him, Fulton felt his blood run cold. "What's wrong?"  
  
At first, Portman said nothing. He only stood there, panting, and his wild, darting eyes found Fulton's in the darkness and held them. Fulton had to struggle not to gasp at the mingled fear, guilt, exhaustion, and something else, something almost, but not-quite-madness that he saw reflected in the shining green orbs. "I... I...your uncle..." he stammered desperately.   
  
And then Fulton knew. "You killed him."  
  
A low moan escaped Dean's throat, and he shuddered deeply. "I didn't mean to, but he was running at me, and I didn't think... Oh God!" Dean stumbled forward, brushing past Fulton and tearing through the thick growth of gnarled old bushes and shrubs that grew along the water's edge. Fulton could hear him retching for a while, and then there was only the sound of the river. She seemed oblivious to all the drama that was unfolding upon her banks, as she sent her currents rushing past them without so much as a backwards glance.   
  
When Dean finally emerged, Fulton was waiting for him. He was trembling and muttering to himself, his features no longer frenzied, but now bearing the leaden blankness of shock. Fulton grabbed his shoulders and shook him roughly, feeling his hands touch something moist and sticky that covered Portman's wings and chest. "Dean, you have to go. Now. They'll be after us; they're probably already transforming. Go now, and I'll catch up with you. Head for the valley; I have to change." He bent forward, and dropped a soft kiss on Portman's trembling, tear-soaked lips. "It'll be okay, I promise. We'll get through this." He turned Portman around by the shoulders, and pushed him gently in the back. "Go."  
  
When Portman was gone, Fulton raised his hands to his face. They were stained with the deepest black. Werewolf blood. Lobo's blood. Without thinking, he stuck his fingers deep within his mouth, feeling power and strength fill his body as he swallowed mouthfuls of the sweet, tangy nectar, his mouth engulfing his hands, tongue flicking along the contours of his fingers, lapping up every last droplet.  
  
'I taste a liquor never brewed...'  
  
The pain in his body forgotten, Fulton raised his eyes to the sky, though he could make none of it out. There were only the endless branches stretching down towards him like grasping, unavoidable fingers... He began to change. Hairs sprouted, organs shifted, bones grew, muscles bulged, senses sharpened, emotions simplified. He could smell the pack behind him, still far away, but gaining. He couldn't smell Dean before him, but he would run that way just the same, towards the only thing he had left that was worth running for.   
  
Run. 


	2. Running away

Before we begin, some notes:   
  
Cake-Eater: I think I've already ranted at some length about how much I loved your review and how cool you are and all that, but you are. Cool, that is. Hope I can continue to live up to your expectations.   
  
RockAndRoll: I'm so glad you liked! Yeah, major props go to darling Schiz for coming up with the idea, what can I say? The girl's crazy cool! You have NO IDEA how much fun it is to write Fulton as a werewolf! I think I'll do a full moon scene next chapter; I can't wait to get into the bloodiness of it all! Anyway, thanks so much, you always make me feel hotter than hot with all the stuff you say.   
  
Xixie: Hey, where'd you go? You used to review my Bash stories, quite a fan if I remember correctly. Is my new fic not quite up your alley? No matter, I'm glad you like this one at least. Updates are a bit slow, because I'm pretty tied up with my regular F/P, but here you go. Enjoy!   
  
Kelly: Yeah, not your typical Ducks fic, is it? When Schiz told me the idea, I thought it was kinda odd, too, but I was soon sucked in. I'm glad I didn't lose the Bash essence, I try hard to keep hold of that when I write. Hope you like where this goes, and if you don't know what's coming next, all the better!   
  
  
  
A World Apart   
  
Wolfsbane, part II: Running away   
  
Run. Just run.   
  
How long had it been? Three days, four? Portman wasn't sure. The wind howled at their backs, chasing them, hurling insults and accusations on her icy breath until Dean thought he was going mad. Beside him, Fulton's breathing was heavy, the cadence of his footsteps broken into a staggering, irregular beat. It had been hours since he'd rested, he must be on the verge of collapse; werewolf or not, he was still a mortal. Portman took his friend's hand in his, and steered them out of the relative open terrain of the riverbank, and deep into the undergrowth that bordered it.   
  
Portman slipped easily between the jagged branches of the tall, majestic fir trees, and when he pushed through a wall of wild juniper bushes, the thorns drew no blood from his smooth white skin, nor became entangled in his clothes or hair. Just one of the many benefits of being dead, he supposed. Behind him, Fulton was having more difficulty. He had to crawl on his hands and knees to escape the trees' grasping appendages, and was soon covered with blood from the juniper thorns. With his size and strength, he could have easily ploughed through, but though they'd managed to throw the pack off their trail the previous evening, a path of broken branches and uprooted shrubs would be exactly what they were looking for. So instead he crawled, bruised, bleeding and exhausted. Finally, he called to Portman.   
  
"Stop."   
  
Portman turned, and took in the surroundings. "Here? You sure this is deep enough?"   
  
"We want to keep the Moon River in hearing distance, right? I can barely make it out. Besides, we go in much further, and we're going to come out the other end."   
  
"What's over there?"   
  
"Other werebeasts' territories. This stretch of woods divides the inner and outer perimeters of the Forest. Keeps the werebeasts off our land, and us off theirs, I suppose. In theory, anyway."   
  
"What do you mean?"   
  
Fulton looked decidedly uncomfortable. He scratched his neck, and wouldn't meet Dean's eyes, as he said, "Well, for over a year now, ever since that awful drought killed off most of our crops, Lobo's been trying to get the pack to turn carnivore during the rest of the month, as well. He started hunting other werebeasts, and bringing them back to the dens to cook and eat. Only some of them fed at first, but now more than half the pack is doing it, too."   
  
Portman was confused. "What, you mean werewolves never used to eat meat?"   
  
Fulton shook his head. "Only human, only on the full moon. We lived off what we grew, the rest of the time. Some of us still do," he added pointedly. "So, what do you think, does this look like a good place to rest until dawn?"   
  
Portman nodded, but he wasn't really listening. It was no worse than the others. Old-growth evergreen trees surrounded them on all sides, stretching so high overhead, that it made him dizzy to look up. All those vertical lines, converging to some imaginary point beyond the reach of human eyes--or even angel eyes, for that matter--always gave him a feeling of vertigo, of motion. He remembered standing in these very woods with Fulton, after their first night together, staring up at the trees, and feeling like they were shooting upwards, riding a platform straight to heaven. Only now it felt like he was descending, plummeting down into the depths of... what? Hell, of course, was the obvious choice, but could hell really be worse than this place?   
  
In the months that had followed since he first met Fulton, Portman came to spend more and more time in the Forest. At first he'd been frightened by its... sentience, perhaps, was the best word; by the way unseen eyes followed him wherever he went, but as the weeks passed, he had grown to like the place, maybe even love it. Nothing like what Fulton felt for it, but he could definitely see the appeal the Forest had for someone as dark and earthy as his boyfriend. The past few days, however, had been among the worst of his entire life (certainly the worst of his after-life), and now he hated every rock, leaf and insect. There was no doubt in his mind that the Forest was full of power; just one square foot of land in this place held more mystical energy than your average wizard's apprentice, but it was a dark energy, one rooted in evil. The whole Forest stank of Death; the air was permeated with it, and since they'd been on the run, she had turned against them, thrown rocks in their path to block their escape, commanded her trees to throw up their roots to trip them as they ran, Portman was sure of it. Once, they had been dive-bombed by a flock of screeching blackbirds, who had drawn blood from Fulton's face, trying to gouge out his eyes.   
  
There were no secrets the Forest didn't know; as soon as Lobo died, Portman could feel the Forest's wrath, her fury that an Outsider, and a celestial being, at that, had dared to murder one of her own. The feeling didn't come in words alone, but in a combination of sensory input. The sights, sounds and smells of the Forest all changed in that one instant, became unwelcome and menacing, and Portman felt as if he'd been marked for death, branded guilty like the murderers in mortal settlements. Why they bothered to brand those who were about to be executed, Portman didn't know, but it was as if he'd already been tried and found guilty. The place held no warmth for him anymore, only ominous shadows and bad memories.   
  
If Portman had stopped for a moment to remember all the good times the Forest had provided, all the lazy days spent by the river with Fulton, laughing and swimming and playing games in the woods, he might have felt differently, but the Forest had filled the air with her anger, and made it hard for him to think of anything happy, and instead, his mind kept going back to Lobo's death, and all the hardship and danger that awaited them now, all because of him. It had been hubris to think he could talk to Lobo, make him see things his way, but it was more than that. It was how much he'd *enjoyed* killing him, how good it had felt, how *right.* He was plagued with nightmares whenever he shut his eyes, and lately, the dreams had been coming to him when he was awake, too. He felt like every happy thought had been siphoned out of him, leaving only sadness, guilt, despair. He would have left ages ago, were it not for Fulton.   
  
Fulton had lived his entire life in the Forest of the Were, venturing out only briefly by the full moon, and Portman knew he wasn't ready to leave just yet. Leaving would mean saying goodbye forever, to his home, his family, everything he had ever known. That would be a lot for anyone to handle, and Portman knew he hadn't been making it any easier for him. He'd been silent, moody and distracted; whenever Fulton tried to get close to him, he pulled away. He could see the hurt in his boyfriend's eyes when he did this, and hated himself for it, but he couldn't help it, either. He felt so alone, even when Fulton was nearby; like nothing was right, and would never be right again.   
  
"Dean, Dean!" Someone was shaking him, and it eventually brought Portman out of his daze. His eyes slowly focused on the person who had such a firm grip on his shoulders. It was Fulton, of course. Who else would it be?   
  
"Hey," he said weakly, trying to smile. "What's up?"   
  
"What's up?" Fulton's voice was so indignant that he squeaked, and Portman saw the hurt in his face. "You were spacing for ages, I couldn't get you to come out of it!" His large, soulful eyes swam with the moisture of unshed tears, and Portman had to look away.   
  
"Dean," Fulton began, reaching out to run his hand down his friend's cheek, but Portman pulled back.   
  
"Don't touch me," he whispered, the words coming out harsher than he'd intended.   
  
"But why, Dean? I don't understand. Talk to me," he pleaded.   
  
"Don't you get it?" Portman yelled suddenly, unable to contain his misery any longer. "I killed him! I wanted to talk to him, and instead I killed him, and now your pack wants to kill you! I've ruined your life, Fulton! What are we going to do now? I wish--" his voice broke. "I wish we'd never met."   
  
"No," Fulton said, in a voice of such ferocity that Dean looked up in surprise. Fulton's hands were clasped tightly in front of him, his nails digging into the backs of his hands, turning the flesh white. "You don't mean that," he said with certainty, shaking his head from side to side. "I know you don't mean that." His eyes met Dean's; they glowed with the white-yellow light of the moon, like polished bone. "Say you don't mean that."   
  
Portman sighed. "You're right. I don't mean that, but look what I've done to you! I got you tossed from the pack, I killed your uncle, and now I'm probably going to get you killed, too!"   
  
"If I died, could we be together?"   
  
"What?" Portman spluttered, trying to regulate the feelings of anger, shock and disbelief that swept over him.   
  
His hands still clasped, Fulton stared intently at the ground, and the words tumbled from his mouth in quick, rapid-fire succession. "I know I wouldn't get into heaven, but maybe I could stay here, like a spirit or something. My pack would be happy cause I'd be dead, and we wouldn't have to run anymore and--"   
  
"Fulton, no!" Dean broke in angrily. "You can't die, I won't let you! You're going to get old and fat and grey and have eighty little werewolf pups and be the best alpha wolf anybody ever saw, just like your father wanted you to."   
  
"Don't do that!" Fulton screamed, putting his hands over his ears. "Don't talk about my father! You didn't know him, you don't know what he wanted, you don't know anything, so just SHUT UP!"   
  
Portman had never heard Fulton scream before, never even heard him raise his voice. The sound was hoarse, desperate, and distinctly inhuman. His eyes had turned yellow, pierced with pits of deepest black, and his teeth grew long and sharp. Coarse black hairs began to sprout from his face as it lengthen into a canine shape.   
  
"What are you doing? Stop that, you can't change here!" Portman didn't want Fulton to know how much he was frightened by his transformation.   
  
"You want to martyr yourself cause you feel guilty, fine, but don't bring me down with you. You don't know what's best for me!" His lips pulled back from his teeth, and he snarled, a fierce growling from deep in his throat, and for a moment, Dean was certain that Fulton meant to kill him.   
  
With an anguished howl, Fulton pushed Portman in the chest, then turned and ducked behind a tree. After a minute, the growling stopped, and Dean saw Fulton slump to the ground at the base of the tree. He walked over and sat down beside him, their hands almost, but not quite, touching. Fulton turned, his face caked with dirt and blood, obscuring his features, and as Portman watched, horrified, tears welled up in the young man's eyes and spilled over, cutting clean tracks down his dirty cheeks.   
  
"If you don't know that 'you're all I have' means anything at all, then get up and leave right now. Don't you know I'd rather die than be stuck here without you? I know you hate the Forest, so we'll leave, I don't care! Just so long as I'm with you. Don't you see that nothing else matters to me?"   
  
And suddenly, Portman did see. He saw Fulton's love for him, stronger than any he'd had as a mortal (and there had been many), saw the fear that gripped the young werewolf at the thought of losing Dean.   
  
'He sees you for who you really are,' Portman thought giddily. 'He knows every bad thing about you, and he still loves you, and wants to be with you. How could you turn away from someone like that?'  
  
He couldn't, he knew that. Portman could feel the pain rolling off of Fulton in waves, and he did the only thing he could think of to stop it; he took him in his arms. He was crying, and trembling, the exhaustion of the day's running catching up with his fear, and Portman rocked him gently back and forth, whispering in his ear.   
  
"Shh, baby, shh, it's alright. I'm so sorry. You were right, I could never leave you, I promise." He raised Fulton's face to his own, and gently kissed the other boy's tears away. "I love you." He gave him one of those snuffle kisses on his neck that always made him giggle. "Come on, we have to get you cleaned up."   
  
They went down to the river, where Portman removed Fulton's soiled clothes, and washed first him, and then both of them, in the icy river. He used the liverwort leaves Fulton had shown him to clean the cuts the boy had acquired from the juniper bushes.   
  
When they were done, they crawled into a cave set in the rock face beside a bend in the river. Portman enfolded Fulton, still wet and shivering, in his massive wings. They stayed like that for hours, taking comfort in each other's warmth for the first time since Lobo's death, before they finally fell into a fitful sleep.   
  
***   
  
"I don't know who you are, or where you came from, but you've no business in this Forest, and certainly none with my nephew."   
  
"That's what I came here to talk to you about. Fulton, you see--"   
  
"Is a traitor. He'll burn for this. Bringing Outsiders into the Forest, consorting with them, telling them Luna knows what..."   
  
"He didn't tell me anything!"   
  
"Liar! He's a traitor, and an infidel; he means to kill us all!"   
  
"No!" But it was too late. From all around him, came the growls and moans of the people who had ran and hid in the trees when he arrived. The people were changing, like the man in front of him, Lobo, who was now no longer a man at all.   
  
"Attack!"   
  
They converged on him from all sides, a dozen snarling faces. Their feverish, yellow eyes glowed in the dim moonlight that pierced through the blanket of misty clouds that covered the sky, as if it was trying to smother the moon to death. He had only the time to wonder how things had gotten out of hand so quickly, when the lead wolf charged. Bounding towards him, claws extended, muzzle pulled back to reveal yellowed teeth dripping with saliva, teeth that were itching to sink into his flesh, to tear him apart...   
  
'Fly, Portman, fly!' But he couldn't move. His wings were like leaden weights strapped to his back, holding him down. Only moments left before he felt the first bite. He looked up at the starless night above him, and prayed for a miracle.   
  
And then the sky opened up.   
  
Portman felt energy surging from his body, and the thin, wisp clouds grew instantly fat and heavy with rain, streaming in from all corners of the sky to form a giant storm cloud right above him. It quivered and shook with energy, and with a final push from Portman, released it all in a single blow.   
  
It was the lightning bolt to end all lightning bolts. For an instant, the entire forest was illuminated, and he saw the shocked, scared faces of the other werewolves for the briefest of moments, before it struck, and struck hard. The bolt hit Lobo squarely on the top of his head; his eyes widened comically, and his mouth flew open in a silent scream, spraying Portman with thick, foamy saliva that burned his skin on contact, and then he exploded.   
  
The light had been so blinding, that when it was gone, there was only darkness. Something splashed over Portman, spraying him with something warm and wet, and little bits of softness that felt like pudding but smelled like burnt flesh, splattered his face and hair. The stench was overwhelming, and bile rose in his throat, gagging him.   
  
All this took but a fraction of a second, and then the thunder struck. The earth beneath him gave such a jolt that he was thrown to the ground, his eyes still dancing with the afterimage the flash left behind. Growls and screams came from every angle, but he couldn't see a thing, so he ran blindly, colliding briefly with a writhing, hairy beast. He kicked out with his feet, somehow made contact, disentangled himself, and kept running. But no matter how fast he ran, the smell stayed with him, so sickly sweet. Such a horrible smell, the smell of death...   
  
Portman awoke with a start, his breathing heavy, his face slicked with sweat. It was the same dream he'd had every night since it had happened. He couldn't escape it. He remembered everything, the look on Lobo's face the moment before he was fried, but mostly the smell, and as he was running away, the sounds of the wolves behind him, the snarls and snaps... they had eaten what little was left of him...   
  
Portman looked over beside him at Fulton, who was curled up in a ball, snoring softly. He had to get out of here. He'd be back when it was time to leave; for better or for worse, his destiny lay with this creature before him, he knew that now, but that didn't make things any easier. It didn't ease the scared, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Fulton would try to help, of course, but he had his own problems, and Dean was pretty sure things would get better when they left the Forest; there was no need to worry Fulton with his troubles. He'd be upset that he couldn't fix him, that his love couldn't make all Dean's fears and guilt and bad dreams go away. But it wasn't his fault; as Dean Portman was beginning to learn, sometime love just wasn't enough. Not by a long shot.   
  
He spread his wings, and disappeared into the darkness.   
  
***   
  
"Fulton? Fulton, are you up? We've got to go!"   
  
Dean was standing over Fulton, who was lying stretched out on the soft earth floor. He stood up, brushing himself clean of pine needles and moss. "I filled the canteens at the river, and I picked you some more of those berries for breakfast," Dean continued, tossing Fulton a leather bag. He tore it open eagerly, and began to devour its contents.   
  
When he was done, he looked up at Portman. "Did you have a good sleep last night?"   
  
Portman nodded. "Slept like a baby. You?"   
  
"Same. Let's go."   
  
"You okay?"   
  
"Uh-huh. We'd better hurry. I can smell them behind us again; they might have caught my scent."   
  
They took off through the woods; feeling far from replenished from last night, Fulton's feet seemed heavy already. He'd awoken in the night, to find Portman gone again, and hadn't been able to get back to sleep. He knew he'd be back, but that didn't help. He knew Portman loved him, but that he was choking to death in this forest. A few more days of travel, and they should be able to leave it behind. Fulton tried to ignore the stab of pain the prospect sent through his chest. He loved the Forest with all his heart, but he loved Portman more, and he was willing to give her up for him. It would just take some getting used to, that's all.   
  
He knew the Forest had gone bad for Portman after Lobo's death, but for him she still held all the beauty and mystery she always had. He wished he could spend his last days with her sitting by the river, or playing in the trees, instead of running endlessly, always on the watch for other werewolves. The thought of leaving all this behind made him sad, but not too sad, because he had Portman, and Portman was worth it. He'd sworn to him last night that he'd take him away from this place, and he would, but it was hard to believe he'd never set foot here again.   
  
'Don't think about that,' he scolded himself. 'Just run. You've got Dean, and that's all that matters. It will be an adventure, to see other places, so why don't you think about that, instead?'   
  
These woods are lovely, dark and deep, but I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep. And miles to go before I sleep. 


End file.
